by Jason Kasper
“Dude,” he said. “I’m sorry. What happened?”
“She was sleeping with my best friend from back home.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he said, ‘Sarah and I have been sleeping together.’”
“But that’s been falling apart for a while, right? You told me you weren’t even sure if the wedding would happen. That was close to a year ago.”
“Yeah. Well, now you can clear your calendar.”
“Have you told anyone else yet?”
“No. But eventually I’m going to have to explain it to everyone I’ve met since age fifteen. And she has to tell her family, because they’re all planning a wedding that won’t happen next summer.”
“I wasn’t ready to be a best man, anyway. Look at it this way, cracker: you’ve got, what, ten months until you graduate?”
“Nine.”
“Less than a year. Whatever. And if you graduate in 2008, then you’ll be back in combat by 2009. It’s not that far off.”
“I never should have left in the first place.”
We crossed onto the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge suspended a hundred feet over the water. I looked through steel girders at the broad expanse of the Hudson River stretching south; its rippling currents caught a million flashing sparkles from the sunset. My eyes danced across the darkening hilltops in front of us, looking for Ma Bell.
Jackson slapped a backhand across my arm. “Hey, fucker. If you hadn’t left, you wouldn’t have started skydiving. Or winning collegiate skydiving medals.”
“That all got old after a few hundred jumps, Jackson.”
“But if you hadn’t lost the rush, you wouldn’t have met me. And you wouldn’t be going where we’re about to go.”
“That’s true,” I conceded.
He checked his watch. “And now you’re only an hour away from the possibility of imminent death. That’s not so bad, right?”
“No.”
He nodded curtly. “Exactly. So chin up, David. The best is all ahead of us.”
* * *
I quickly ascended the narrow metal ladder, the faint clanging of my boots on the thin rungs interspersed with the sounds of Jackson climbing below me. The weight of my nylon stash bag pressed against my back, and each current of wind washed chills over my sweat-soaked shirt as the temperature began plummeting from its balmy afternoon high into the sixties. The poles of the ladder disappeared into a man-sized gap in the red metal grating above me, and beyond it was only clear blue sky. I pressed my body to the ladder, but still felt the scrape of my stash bag against the platform’s narrow opening as I pulled myself onto the pinnacle of Ma Bell.
The setting sun cast a subdued orange glow on the forested hilltops around us, and shadows pooled in the valleys between them. The rolling terrain gave way to the flat sapphire span of the Hudson River, whose far shore met West Point’s tiny cluster of gray stone buildings. The sparkling twinkle of lights from Michie Stadium crowned the campus from an adjacent hill, now miles away and gleaming like a star.
Jackson stepped off the ladder and followed my gaze. “And no one at West Point knows you do this? Not even your skydiving team?”
“No way. That place kicks people out for cheating; I don’t think felony trespassing would go over too well. What do you think about the winds? I’d put us at three to five knots out of the southwest, gusting to eight.” I took the stash bag off my back, then set it on the ground and knelt beside it to open the drawstring.
“Gusting to ten, at least,” he replied, taking off his own stash bag. “Still better than last time in the city.”
I pulled a parachute container from my bag and began inspecting my gear. “Speaking of that,” I said, “I’ve got a three-day pass coming up for Labor Day. What do you think about working our way around the Bronx? I need more building experience.”
Jackson ignored me, instead checking his own parachute before pulling the harness over his shoulders. I did the same, then stepped through the leg straps before attaching the chest strap and tightening the webbing. Once we were finished, we folded our stash bags and stuffed them into our cargo pockets.
“Let me check you out,” he said, performing a quick walk-around inspection of my parachute. “You’re good. Do mine.”
“Why aren’t you answering me about Labor Day?”
“Hurry up and check. I’m getting cold.”
I examined his harness from front to back, ending my inspection with a slap on his shoulder. “You’re good. So what about Labor Day weekend?”
He turned to face me. “You’ve got to have some normal college kid things you can do.”
“Fuck no. My roommate is taking some guys home to Philly, but I told them I had to skydive, so I’m totally free.”
“Well, go back and tell them you’d love to go.”
“Why? If you’re busy I can still come here to Ma Bell by myself, or see if Nick can meet up and—”
“David, you and your fiancée just broke up. Go to Philly and get drunk with your friends. Chase skirts. Be a college kid for a few days.”
“I can get drunk with you.”
“All your free time is spent hanging out with adrenaline junkies, and the truth is we’re all as fucked up in the head as you are. You need a break. I’ve been right before, and I’m right about this. Do I need to remind you about the loops?”
My jaw set. “No.”
“Let’s discuss the loops for a minute—”
“Fine, goddammit. I’ll go to Philly and waste my time drinking beer and listening to kids talk about sports.”
“Good. Three.”
“But the weekend after that you have to take me to the World’s Fair towers in Queens.”
“Fine. Two.”
“Maybe as a part of a Harlem River tower doubleheader.”
“Don’t push it. One.”
“See you on the ground, Jackson.”
“See ya.” He turned and took three blindingly fast steps before leaping off the edge of the platform.
He fell for one second before reaching back and throwing his pilot chute. It immediately inflated, pulling on the long bridle that extracted the canopy from the container. With a loud crack, his main parachute exploded open into a clean, black rectangle, and Jackson soared beneath it in a hard, carving right turn back to the landing area. He lined up with the narrow length of grass we had crossed after leaving the woods, then touched down and pulled his parachute to the ground.
I walked to the platform’s edge.
The tips of my boots hovered over oblivion, and I stood in silence to let the fear wash over me in waves. Alone amidst the framework of the windswept antenna, and high above the painful realities of my life that I had left on the ground when I began climbing, I had found the only place in the world where I could clear my head. A hundred mental battles of the day were laid to rest in that solitary environment. There was no Sarah, no affair on the top platform of Ma Bell; my mind focused solely on its very existence, and possibly its end.
I took a final breath. “Three… two… one… see ya,” I said, jumping off the edge.
A fatal fall unfolded as I plunged into the void, my speed increasing as treetops raced toward me. My senses were on fire, my mind and body screaming that death was imminent. I hit the end of a one-second count before reaching back to grasp my pilot chute. I let another long second and a half pass before throwing it to the side. The height of the trees intensified the ground rush, presenting the impression that impact was inevitable before my parachute burst open, jerking me upright as I grabbed the steering toggles.
A slight tailwind pushed me over the trees and away from the open field as I banked into a hard right turn. After lining up with my intended touchdown point, I descended toward Jackson’s figure. Pulling the toggles down to shoulder level, I bled off altitude, and the whistle of wind in my ears quieted as I slowed. Transitioning to a flare, I lowered my hands to my waist as the ground approached, and I touched down softly a few feet from
Jackson before collapsing my parachute.
Jackson was undoing his chest strap from the buckle and looking at me with a raised eyebrow. “You’re starting to take it pretty low out here, fucker. Remember that if you bounce, I’ve got to deal with it.”
I looked up at Ma Bell. The massive, four-sided framework of alternating red and white metal beams rose into the crystalline blue sky, tapering as it ascended into the square platform hovering 360 feet overhead. A broad smile crossed my face as the lingering surge of adrenaline infused with the overwhelming euphoria of a safe touchdown; BASE jumping was like killing yourself and walking away, death and resurrection combined in those precious few seconds that made everything else in life bearable.
He was still watching me, waiting for a response.
“That’s true, Jackson. But we all have to be selfish every once in a while.”
CHAPTER 4
September 1, 2007
Devon, Pennsylvania
I awoke in the darkness, like always.
No dreams, no sudden startles at real or perceived noises like a normal war vet, though I couldn’t remember waking up like that before my tours in Afghanistan and Iraq—just wide awake in a split second, fully alert and conscious. The abrupt wake-ups were only my second most noticeable memento of combat, the first being a constant ringing in my ears like a shrill, high-pitched dial tone on each side of my head that accompanied permanent hearing loss. As I listened through the ringing, I heard a low, repetitive sound that I eventually recognized as snoring.
I sat up on the air mattress, my eyes adjusting to the two other bodies in the room. One slept on the lone bed, the other on a second air mattress. Pulling a thin blanket off my waist, I rose and felt my way along the wall to the backpack that doubled as my survival kit for the inevitable. Picking it up and swinging the strap over my shoulder, I opened the door and crept out of the room.
I stepped into the hallway and looked across the railing to a second floor foyer window that rose eight feet above the front door. Beyond it, rows of affluent houses lined the wide street of the Philadelphia subdivision, and ground lights illuminated fragments of neatly trimmed shrubs and swimming pools. Following the railing past an open bathroom and several more closed doors, I turned and descended the stairs barefoot.
Walking past the front door, I slipped through a dark entryway and felt around for the kitchen light switch.
I retrieved a glass from a cabinet next to the sink and filled it a third of the way with ice cubes before setting my bag on the floor and taking a seat at the dining room table. I withdrew my laptop and powered it on, then removed a bottle of Woodford Reserve, opened it, and poured three inches of bourbon. I didn’t bother replacing the cork.
Opening a blank Word document on the laptop, I watched the black cursor blink against a bright white screen. I lifted the glass to my face with a light whirl to circulate the bourbon around the ice, breathing in fragrant notes of spice and vanilla before taking a long drink. Then I settled my fingertips over the keys.
Suddenly, I heard a keychain rattle outside the front door, followed by the flat clack of a deadbolt turning. Pushing back my chair, I stood and walked into the foyer in time to see the door open. A single figure stood silhouetted in the ambient light.
“And who are you, exactly?” she asked.
I stalled for a moment. The girl was dressed in a loose Ohio State shirt over sweatpants that ended in a pair of fur-lined moccasins. The strap of one duffel bag neatly divided the shirt between her breasts, and she held another duffel in one hand as she pocketed her keys.
“I’m a friend of your brother’s.”
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I’ve been driving since four o’clock. Holiday traffic was terrible.”
“In your defense, this could be a really elaborate home robbery ruse.” I reached forward and took the duffel from her hand. “Let me help you with your bags.”
“I can get them.”
“No. Come on.”
She blew a wisp of straw-blonde hair out of her face before unslinging the other duffel and handing it to me. As I hefted the strap over my shoulder, she swept her hair back with cupped fingers and straightened her posture.
“I’m Laila,” she said.
“David. Where do you want these?”
“My room’s upstairs. Thanks.” She locked the door behind her and led the way toward the steps, stopping at the dining room entryway. “What’s going on over there?”
I looked at my open laptop and bourbon. “Homework.”
“At one in the morning, while drinking?”
“That’s how I do my best thinking.”
“Where are your books?”
I tapped the side of my head with two fingers. “All up here.”
She shrugged indifferently, and we walked up the stairs.
“This is me,” she said, opening a door and stepping aside.
I set her bags on the bedroom floor, glancing at the stuffed animals arranged on her tidy bed under a high school pennant. On the dresser, a wide cloth frame held a photo of teenage girls in green track shorts with their arms around one another. I stepped back out of the room.
She studied me with her clear green eyes. “So is everyone else already passed out? I thought you guys would still be burning it down by now.”
“We started early,” I said.
“None of you would survive at Ohio State, you know.”
“I know. Not a lot of legal drinking opportunities at West Point.”
“So why are you still going?”
“I said, not a lot of ‘legal’ opportunities.”
“Wait—you’re Steve’s roommate, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“So you’re the elusive Rivers, the one who hides all your booze in the cadet room.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
She gave a quick laugh. “He’s told me a lot about you.”
“Like what?”
“That you shot a bunch of people overseas and you don’t give a shit about West Point. And you spend all your time jumping out of helicopters. True?”
“Not entirely. I jump out of planes, too.”
Her phone chimed. She slid it from her pocket and checked the display. “Oh, it’s Peter. I was supposed to call him when I got here. I have to go.”
“Peter?”
“My boyfriend. I have to go.”
“Of course. Goodnight, Laila.”
“Goodnight, Rivers.”
I returned to the dining room and sat down to write, but the words didn’t come. Sitting back in the chair, I drank my glass of bourbon and poured another, then leaned forward and rested my fingers over the keys once more. The cursor continued to blink at me, awaiting my guidance to begin its dutiful march across the screen, leaving a trail of letters in its wake.
One hour and two more glasses of bourbon later, the words still wouldn’t come.
I heard footsteps descending the stairs before Laila appeared in the entryway. “How’s the homework going?” she asked.
“Not well. You interrupted my flow.”
“If it makes you feel better, I can’t sleep. Too much coffee on the drive, I suppose.”
I nodded toward the bottle of Woodford. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Peter would love that.”
“Your secret’s safe with me. Come on now, Buckeye. Show me how Ohio State girls do it.”
She gave a rueful smile of concession, but said nothing as she retrieved a glass from the kitchen, filled it with ice, and sat across from me. She poured herself a double and raised her glass.
“To secrets,” I said, tapping my glass against hers. We both took a sip.
“I’m surprised you came home with Steve. He said he always offers and you never take him up on it.”
“I usually stay pretty busy.”
“Trying to get college girls drunk?”
“If I’m being honest, you’re the first.”
“Really? As a senior?”
“I find that hard to believe.”
I sighed, staring at the bourbon remaining in my glass. “Up until a few weeks ago, I had a fiancée I’d been loyal to for eight years. Then I found out she’d been sleeping with my best friend since I joined the Army. Now I spend most nights BASE jumping. So to be honest, I couldn’t care less about the college girls.”
“What is BASE jumping?”
“It means I spend most of my time sneaking around in the dark and breaking into buildings or finding antennas to jump off of. I’ve had to run from the cops, and I’ve almost been killed a couple of times. Got arrested jumping a waterfall and barely kept my school from finding out. Had a bad opening and flew into the side of the antenna a few weeks ago, and had to climb a hundred feet on the outside framework to recover my parachute. That’s BASE jumping.”
“Does my brother know you do that?”
“No. No one does.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“I don’t know.”
She nodded. “Well, you’re not the only one with issues. I’m sure you know about my dad.”
“No.”
“Steve never told you?”
“Steve doesn’t talk about his family all that much, to tell you the truth.”
“We had a townhouse when my dad worked at McKinsey. He had this home office at the top of the stairs that he usually kept locked. But sometimes he’d forget. And whenever he did, Steve and I would sneak in there before he came home from work. He had all this cool stuff from his travels around the world. African masks, these really ornate painted elephants from India, stuff like that. And we could sit in this old, leather-bound rolling chair he loved, and spin around and look at everything.
“Well, one day Steve got sent home from school before my mom got back. So he went up the stairs and checked the office door, and it’s unlocked, so he went in. And my dad was sitting in his chair, facing the door. And he had… he had shot himself with a revolver that my mom thought he’d sold when she got pregnant with Steve.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
“We went to family counseling, which helped a little. But in a way, the hardest part about everything wasn’t losing him.”
